On mantelpiece were picture of King. Face of the Union. King with royal teeth. King with hollow eyes. King holding sword all saucy and trying to look suave. King staring into the living room with contempt for the little’uns. Was he dignified or was he sleazy? Yes, these are questions, that’s for certain.

Tony entered the room. Fifty years deep and slow on his feet, he was one of the little’uns. He took stock of the room. By convention, it was called the living room but, really, this was the room in which he was edging closer to death. It was in bad taste to call it the dying room though. It simply wasn’t the done thing, especially with picture of King right there staring him down like Nanny McPhee. If he’d learnt one thing, it was this: always get your towel on the sun lounger before the Germans do. It wasn’t PC, but neither was his neighbour.

Anyhow, last night was open mic and he’d been booed off the stage. He had come to hate his audience. Now it was morning and he was in the dying room. Picture of King was staring at him. Judging him, or maybe just indifferent. Did it matter?

“Gah,” he said. He was sleepy because it was early. “What I’d do with your money,” he said to picture of King. “I still love you though. I love your little ears.” He took a bow before picture of King and that revealed the top of his arse. Sadly, this undermined his piety.

Anyhow, it was Sunday but that didn’t matter because whatever day it was, he didn’t much care for it. He wondered if he should settle down for a few hours and study the Socratic Method. Either that, or order in some grub.

“Gah,” he said.

Anyhow, the doorbell rang. He didn’t want to answer, but that wasn’t the done thing. Quite the opposite. He peeked through the curtains. “Gah,” he said. It was Mother Martin.

“What’s she doing here?” he muttered in that unmistakable way of his. She was carrying a basket of bricks, and the sadness of three generations of an unlucky family on her left shoulder; a rather useless skill. She was known for her tremendous strength, but not as much as she was known for being able to do a decent impression of Sharon Osbourne. For it, she had earned some respect, but it was also starting to wear thin. What doesn’t?

Tony went to answer the door. It was too early for this. He knew it was too early for this. Still, he had to answer. It was Mother Martin, after all. She may have been a pigging nuisance, but she was also a name. But it was too early for this. Too early for her.

“Good morning Mother Martin,” he said, courteous and all, as is the done thing.

“Is Ozzy in?” she said, with a look in her eye that suggested trouble afoot.

“It’s too early for this again,” Tony replied. But Mother Martin barged past him. Put him on his backside. He felt a disc slip. There goes the back again. Gah. How would he bow to picture of King now? He lay there in debilitating pain and, as he did, Mother Martin searched the house for Ozzy while also screaming his name.

It was silly really. How had he gotten into such a situation? Did you know he had good GCSE’s? Once, the world has been full of promise. Now, things were just normal. He wanted drama. He wanted fire in his belly. He wanted to emigrate. But he couldn’t abandon King. That’s what made him not only loyal, but highly reliable. And when he died, that’s what made them say things like; “He was alright Tony was.”